The Dragon of the swamp
by Dantes-Silent-Huntress
Summary: In need of Witcher. The dragon of the swamp took me eye and I want revenge on it. Will pay handsomely for the dragons head on a mount. Please apply at Dragonbridge, look for the dwarves blacksmith with one eye. But there's a catch, she isn't all monster.


Swamps are a fine place to start a farm when you know how to do so. Once the poisonous gases are burned up and the water leeched away from the deep mud below, only a couple of days of drying out leaves the fertile ground below filled with nutrients from the creatures sucked in by the deadly deep mud, plus drowners make for great manure if you leave them there to rot whilst the ground dries out. Crops of all kinds grow her now at my home in the central swamps, a main route for travel by many caravans and outfits of troops. It's nearly a weeks ride between cities and my humble little site lies dead between Dragonbridge and Fosters Keep.

Gazing out the window, I admired it, the sun striking the roof tiles of the few small guest cabins, made of ceramic tiles. The winters here were harsh, snow often came and lay six feet deep, so the cabins were built by the best to withstand the pressure and cold during the long winter nights. All the cabins had a door through to a basement, joining them together in one large almost bunker metres beneath the ground. This is where the hot springs lay, even in winter did the water run hot and the steam heated the floors of the huts and kept the customers from freezing. Prime destination for me, they say the springs where heated by Dragon Fyre but there's no proof of that of course. In the far corner next to the high sturdy wall was the barn, white wood made the bulk of it, the walls thick to protect the horses from the brewing storms. This was my little spa in the swamp, a safe place where a man could have a hot bath and a long lie in a comfy bed, leaving in the morning feeling well rested but lighter in pocket.

The glimmering swamp waters outside the walls of my little paradise glimmered with green algal blooms, yet my own pond was clear and allowed the horses to drink freely. It was fed by the outer swamp waters, however my Rivian snapping turtles kept the water clean and free from anything else, plus I didn't have to feed them which was a massive plus.

Watching the evenings work was my usual interest as I watched one of the younger maids returning to her room, up high in the barn loft. There was a secret compartment above the hay loft where my own lady's that kept the farm slept, with a level below them for the farm lads and also the soldiers who had little to give for a hay filled mattress other than some honest work and with winter rolling in, I needed all the help I could get.

With the sun setting upon the walls, leaving lengthening shadows across the yard, the first flake of winter fell, more and more joining it until the flurry worked up. The farm would be free for another day or so due to the high bricked walls around it almost like a fine fortress, but soon enough the snow would build and my farm would be caught with it. As per usual this time, I stepped down the stairs. I was already decked in my heaviest armour and furs, easy for me to bear down to the floor where I pulled my boots on and readied myself. I stepped out of the farmhouse and called the workers to attention. They were each given one hundred gold each to go to their families during the winter months, over three months pay which would sustain them whilst they awaited my letters. They left thankfully, hurrying to their horses, loaded their purses to their saddles and blasting off. Some were a little slower, my head lady, Caitlin, hovering around the exit.

"Are you sure you will be fine m'lady?" She asked tentatively, "I do worry about you so in these harsh winters"

I smiled gently at her, she had no idea. "Don't you worry about me lovely, I'm sure I will cope just fine without your motherly hand to make me my tea in the morning,"

She smiled warmly back, and with a nod, mounted her horse and trotted off. Truthfully, I would miss the company of the staff, revelling when a visitor stopped by having been caught in the blizzards. But the winter time was silent enough that I could tend the place myself. So, setting off to the stables, I opened the creaking barn door and went to the last horses left. Wynter, my beautiful grey mare, pale as the snow that fell was heavily pregnant and not able to leave especially in this weather. I forked her a load of hay from a nearby pile and gave her a pat before going to the next stall. Ghost, my stallion, nickered softly and put his massive head over the door. Also nearly white but with darker sapling, he was my prize horse, worth more than the Nilfgaardian army to me. Throwing his harness on, I brought him from his stall for Wynter to give a quiet neigh to her mate. She would be fine by herself for a few days and she had enough hay to last her. Regardless, I unbolted her door and let her wander the huge barn whilst I was gone, plenty of food and water for her.

Hitching Ghost up the the large covered cart, we set off on our own, only stopping briefly to lock the huge gate on the way out, ensuring my farm was found as it was left. The nearest town Dragonbridge was a two day journey from here where I could easily stock up with months worth of food and provisions, plus I'd had an unpleasant surprise of stepping into the snow and my right boot leaking. I'd had to change quickly and thrown the damaged pair in the back to take to the blacksmith for repair. The stallions huge feathered legs pounded the ground, flicking little drifts of snow as he pulled the cart down the lane to the main path in and out of the swamp. We had to be quick before the wind picked up along with the storm and froze the roads solid.

We hurtled into town on the second day at dawn, Ghost had been feeling his oats an exceptional amount and had insisted on running himself rotten on the road. He was barely panting and only had a fine sheen of sweat as we pulled into the centre of the bustling town and into the carriage stop. They knew me well and took Ghost from me as I dismounted the cart. The young lad grinned at me and I chucked him a couple of gold.

"Look after him," he nodded excitedly and trotted off somewhat humorously trying to handle the huge stallion. My first stop was the blacksmiths. He was a short stocky man of dwarves heritage with a bushy beard and a thin strip of hair around his head and a bandage over one eye. He continually tells the story -somewhat proudly - of how he got it fighting the dragon of Dragonbridge, yet nobody believed him due to his size and stature. 'Hah' they laughed, 'what does a shrimp such as you know of fighting dragons, leave that to the witchers.' I believe him. It was me who carved my claws through the flesh of his face after he insisted on attacking me whilst I stood by a river to catch fish. No killing people, no burning down villages, just hooking fish straight out of the water. He repaid me by slashing through my cheek and even I my human for, I bore the scars from his silver dagger. He never again trusted me after that incident, too coincidental he would say, eyeing me suspiciously. I turned it into a game, a teasing game as drakes are oft to do.

"Good morning dragons layer Grendal," I greeted him politely, bowing with a grin.

"Morning Drake," he retorted just as pleasantly, "how are you?"

"Oh y'know, just taking a break from raiding villages and stealing away princess'" Gren raised an eyebrow at me and scowled, he didn't seem sure that I was joking. "I'm just in to have my boots done before winter and I need a master blacksmith for it,"

He lightened up considerably, nothing cheered the dwarf up more than flattery and he took the boots that I had brought from the cart, looking a bit disgusted once more,

"I don't know why you keep these old things," he grumbled, "probably easier just to buy new ones,"

I laughed at him, it was true, but those boots were made of the skin off my mothers old hide and aside from holes, they were completely weather proofed. As he toddled off to the back of the shop, he shouted that they'd be a few hours. Great. Time for me to go have a drink before I pick up my shopping. As I left however, I noticed a stranger standing by the local bounty board. He was tall and well built with icy white hair though he wasn't all that old. He glanced towards me, almost as if he sensed me and I seen his eyes, a mixture of yellow and orange with cat like pupils. A witcher. A coin fed monster hunter. What was he doing here in my small town? I had to hide from him. My own pale hair and amber eyes often attracted attention and I lied to the townsfolk that I myself was a witcher just to not arouse suspicion and for the most part, they were just as friendly and cheery as ever. The last thing I needed was for one of them to mention it and blow my cover - the witcher would know straight away that I was not one of his kind. So, pulling my cloak over my head, I headed to the bar.

"The Lowly Grouse," was an old building, here for centuries, it was dark inside, torchlit as the dawn arose through the town, the flames flickering restlessly as the patrons moved around the tiny space, fighting to combat the shadows. The barkeep was a huge brute of a man with blue eyes and dark hair, Erin. He damn knew how to mix his spirits though. Everything was dragon or fire related as was the rest of the town, it was where the place gathered its tourism after all.

"Hey Erin, some of the firewater you do if ya don't mind," I smiled at him, he was one of my oldest friends in this town, even if he did always smell of wet dog.

"You know Nyssa, you're the only one I know who can stomach the stuff," he chuckled gruffly, his blue eyes bright -he'd obviously had a good day. Erin was one of the few people in the town who believed Grendals stories, he was also a werewolf. He occasionally came round the swamp on the full moon and changed back in the morning, so I would bathe him and give him a bed and tell him stories of how he was staggering drunk around the swamp again. I'm sure he knew that I knew but didn't want to seem rude. He did however, have an idea of who the dragon was as well but told people that it was impossible to have a were-dragon, to which I was glad.

"Keep drinking it and someone might think you're the dragon of the swamp with the way you keep it down, sure you don't save it for later to breathe out actual fire?" He winked at me, chuckled again and set the blazing drink down in front of me. The liquid was bright red like stage blood, a mix of vodka, tomato juice, chilliest and other things,but it went down easy enough and left a pleasant burning down my throat.

I was jesting some more with Erin as he walked in again. The witcher that had been outside. Thankfully my hood was still up but he perched on the stool next to me as I downed my second glass and watched him. Erin approached cautiously, he knew there was only one reason for a monster hunter to be here.

"What can I get you, Witcher?"

"Firewater," the man replied, his voice a deep rough sound and I perked up to listen, "Information too."

"Oh?" Erin seemed taken aback, gave a nervous glimpse to me and turned back to make the witchers drink.

"I want to know about the dragon. There's a price on it. A high one."

I stiffened in my seat and the Witcher turned to me. Someone put a contract out on me. Grendal, the snaky little bastard. Obviously he still mourned the looks of his eye and felt that a life would repair it. Not today my friend. I should have eaten him when I had the chance. Leaving my money on the table, I jumped to the floor from the stool and left. I hoped nobody would suspect me, after all the soft spoken, five foot two farm Owner was far from a vicious beast.

Instead I gathered what I could from the market, supplies and food worth hundreds upon hundreds of gold and packed them into my cart a the snow began again. My boots followed along with some new hooded cloaks that I had bought. Ghost was brought out, having been groomed, fed and tacked up once more, the same young boy leading him. The horses ears pricked as he seen me, speeding up and snorting as I took him from the boy and hitched him up.

"Good as gold, miss, didn't need a whip nor shout, what a good boy," the youngster patted the thick grey leg and went to run off. I tossed him a few more coins for a job well done and threw an old blanket over the horse. It would keep him warm son the way home at least. So I climbed into my seat snapped the reins and off we went, high stepping through the few inches that had already built up, singing and chatting as we went. By the dawn of the second day, we had hit the very edges of the swamp, good thing too since the road had begun to turn to mush, taken over by the edges of murky swamp water. But something was amiss, there was no swamp birds twittering and flapping through the trees, no drowners making the steady rounds near the road for weary travellers, not even a rabbit chewing on the tips of grass sprouting through the snow. A terrible sense of foreboding took over me and I gave Ghost a sharp whip to speed him up. It was not until I passed the old signpost that I could smell them, the bandits, I had run straight into their ambush at the crossroads. I couldn't afford to lose any of my provisions, lest I die over the winter. The whip bit into the stallions rump again and he grunted and threw himself into a mad gallop, summoning my dragonfyre to my hands, burning bright and blue. I launched the fiery ball at a nearby bush that was sheltering some of the bandits and lit the area with brilliant light as it exploded. It near killed them instantly and the scent of burning flesh filled the air. Ghost skidded to a halt as the rest jumped from their hides with swords in hand, ready to fight. The was too many, and as I kept from the cart and pulled my glittering steel sword, there was a deafening bang - a smoke bomb. The Witcher came, with his sword bared, ready to fight. The steel sung with every swing, his white hair floating like fresh foam on the tide, it was mesmerising in the way he moved to an unheard beat, each timed step and swing carefully planned. I joined in occasionally, keeping myself safe and out of the road as the Witcher done what he did best. Blood sprayed, hot and sticky across my cheek and I couldn't help but lick it up, my long forked tongue tasting the sweet nectar. It was gone by the time the last bandit fell and he turned around.

"Thank you kindly Witcher," I murmured,finally seeing his face. He had stark white stubble and scars crisis crossing his face, the largest curling across his left eye. He had a sharp jawline leading down his neck and broad shoulder... No Nyssa, enough. The most stunning feature was his eyes though, those vivid bright eyes were stunning, so similar to my own,

"Geralt of Rivia," he nodded, "Need to find the farm along here."

"Fyre farm?" I asked and received another curt nod, "I'm Nyssa. I own the place, you can hop up with me and I'll take you there. It's the least I can do."

With another silent nod, he gracefully climbed aboard the seat next to me. Remaining quiet, I let the hoof beats lull me into an almost trance like state, Ghost knew the way home better than I did now, and I could feel him picking up the pace at the thought of his warm stable and a basket of hay. Glancing sideways a couple of times, I noticed Geralt was equally silent, his eyes closed, but definitely not asleep.

As we arrive, I tossed him a set of keys.

"Flame Wraith house," I said simply, "The largest, I'll be along to tend you shortly and bring fresh sheets and food, if you have a horse at all, call him and I'll bed him down with my own, with fresh water and straw. It'll be a long week so I suggest you wear your heaviest cloaks. There's also a hot spring underneath the house so use it as you please,"

"Week?"

"There's a storm rolling in," I said, it was true, in a few hours we would be well and truly snowed in without leave.

"Just a storm," the Witcher shrugged his broad shoulders and I narrowed my eyes.

"I'm sure you've experienced much worse than snowstorms Geralt of Rivia," I hissed, "But even a Witcher will not bode well when the blood freezes in your veins and the creatures of the storm come to feast on your entrails as you slowly and painfully bleed out and watch them. Even I would not leave in this weather to brave it, for there's a fine line between bravery and stupidity. I suppose you'll have to stay."


End file.
